


能ある鷹は爪を隠す

by Anonymous



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Manipulation, Incest, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shimadacest, Sibling Incest, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:32:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8548201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A hawk masquerades as a sparrow.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [Written for the kink meme.](https://overwatch-kink.dreamwidth.org/679.html?thread=205223#cmt205223)

**能ある鷹は爪を隠す - the wise hawk hides its claws**

 

Hanzo looks beautiful on his knees.

It's something Genji has thought about for a long time. Decades. His whole life, possibly. He's always admired Hanzo. He's always loathed Hanzo. And, yes, he's always loved Hanzo. He can't really say when those conflicting drives coalesced into what they are now. He isn't really bothered enough to give it thought. He could tell himself that he only began fantasizing about Hanzo kneeling and begging and moaning his name after his attempted fratricide, if only to make himself feel better about it. But he doesn't tell himself that, because he isn't bothered by the truth.

Maybe it has been all this time, all his life. Maybe Genji has wanted to force Hanzo down from the time when he was first sentient enough to see the way his brother looked down on him. The perfect prince. His parents' son.

Why'd they bother having a second?

Time has reversed their angles. Time, a bloody night permanently etched into both of them, and the influence of the organization they both serve.

Genji is very grateful to all three of these things. Without them, he would never have been awarded the opportunity to stare down into his brother's handsome, sweating, _debauched, debased_ countenance, to twine his fingers in his brother's hair and forcefully grind more pleasure from him, to hear his name fall lustfully from Hanzo's guilty tongue.

He didn't plan this particular mission himself. The serendipity of it all makes Genji laugh. He hasn't stopped smiling under his visor since the debriefing. Winston asked if they thought they'd need more backup. Hanzo looked to Genji for guidance ( _yes, fuck, just like that, brother_ ), and they shook their heads in unison. So trusting. For all his parents' certainty that Hanzo made the perfect assassin, he seems to have forgotten important lessons about leaving his back unguarded.

They're going _home._ Hanamura. The last time Genji was there was just under two years ago, the anniversary of his death, the night when he showed Hanzo he was still alive. He expects Hanzo to resist the idea of going back, but he doesn't. When Genji asks why, Hanzo answers, not with words but with the aborted grunts and gestures so characteristic of him.

_I will be all right if you are there._

The beautiful little fantasy Genji has created is so sweet. The fall will be even sweeter.

Their teammates wish them well, blithely unaware that only one brother will be returning. Jesse salutes; Hana looks up from her phone long enough to give a casual wave and tell them both not to die; Zenyatta inclines his head to both brothers and leaves Genji with a gentle touch on his shoulder.

Zenyatta.

If there is guilt, it is there. Genji would not insult his mentor by saying that Zenyatta knows nothing of his intentions. But he is confident that the omnic does not know how deep the well of his anger goes. The years in Nepal and traveling the world have tempered Genji, a process that would have been impossible without Zenyatta's guidance. But the transformation has not run deeply enough. His single, overriding desire has remained the same as it was when he woke up in a hospital bed with his human body gone, the same as it has been since he was a child.

He wants to make Hanzo kneel. He wants to make Hanzo break.

Zenyatta has surely sensed something of his intentions. He treats the subject of Genji's brother delicately, even after all their time together. He alone has asked whether the reconciliation is as healthy as it seems. He alone gave Genji a long, quiet look when he heard of the mission to Hanamura.

Genji wishes he could tell him the truth. Genji wishes Zenyatta could understand the truth. He wishes that, when he returns alone, the omnic will not suspect what he has done.

(He will. And Genji knows that, and it hurts, but the desire to please his greatest mentor and friend is subordinate to the unhealthy lust that consumes him.)

Hanamura is as picturesque as ever, all pink cherry blossoms and old wooden buildings. They pass the arcade, and Genji feels a stab of fondness for the idle childhood hours spent there. Hanzo's lip curls in distaste, as if he can tell what his brother is thinking.

(As if he ever could.)

The mission is easy: quash a new bloom of Shimada activity before it has the chance to grow aboveground. Genji's blade tastes his family's blood. The dragon growls its satiation. It will have more on which to feed. It awaits the consumption of its brothers as eagerly as Genji does.

Hanzo draws and shoots with impeccable aim and focus. He gives away no sign that this place or these people are unpleasant memories for him.

_"Take up your sword again, Brother,"_ Genji wants to say. _"Cut them up like you cut me."_

He does not.

The ryokan is not to Genji's taste; he would prefer something more modern, something dozens of stories high with glass and electronic displays. Something, he realizes, discomfited, to match himself. But Hanzo likes tradition. A final mercy. The last kindness Genji will show him. Something sweet that will turn too bitter to stand.

Hanzo sits on the futon with his yukata loose. His hair is down and drying around his face; his cheeks are slightly ruddy from the warmth of the bath. He is quiet, thoughtful. Brooding. Perhaps coming home has had some effect on him after all.

Genji joins him. He's removed his visor. He joined Hanzo in bathing, though he can't enjoy it the way he used to be able to. Warm water on metal plates and vents will never be as soothing as it is on skin, and now he has to concern himself with rust and maintenance. His body is convenient for a killing machine, less so for a person.

"Does it bother you, being here?" Genji cards his metallic fingers through Hanzo's grey-streaked hair. It's soft and damp. It feels good. When they started this, whatever _this_ is, Hanzo would flinch viciously away from his touch. After enough time, he gave no outward reaction to it, and now he leans into it. His face remains grim, but the soft motion speaks of pleasure. He likes Genji touching him.

Depraved. Brother-killer. Brother-lover.

"It is...not easy," Hanzo says finally. His voice is slightly hoarse, a pleasant rumble against Genji's chest. They lie back together. Genji's other hand slips into his brother's yukata. He finds a nipple and strokes, knowing the carbon will be too cold and not caring. He traces the tattoo, pulling cloth away as he goes, and his lips follow.

Hanzo shivers. "And for you?"

Genji lifts his eyes, playful. Hanzo thinks he knows the game, but he doesn't. "Lots of fond memories. They're not all red." He can't resist. Hanzo flinches. It's satisfying, but—

_Not yet. Not yet._

"We could go to the arcade together," he says, smoothing over the snarl.

He watches Hanzo's nostrils flare and sees the sarcastic retort alight on his brother's lips, only to die before it can be born. He can _see_ Hanzo forcing himself to stop, breathe, and contain it.

The control, the _power_ he has over Hanzo will never cease being intoxicating.

"Would you like that?" Hanzo says at last. His eyes are closed and his chest moves up and down. The yukata is hardly covering anything any longer. Genji pulls his hand from Hanzo's hair with a final stroke at the graying temples and moves it to ghost over his abdominal muscles instead. Hanzo is hot and soft and _human_ under him. He plays at being a dragon, but Genji, clothed in steel scales, is much closer to the real thing.

In lieu of answering, Genji says, "We'll go tomorrow."

Hanzo smiles.

The yukata lies open at last. Genji tangles his hand in the thatch of coarse hair that leads to his brother's cock. Hanzo isn't soft. Maybe it's the stroking of his chest or his hair, or Genji's physical closeness, or maybe just having him in the room with the promise of something more to come.

Desperate and dependent, hardly a dragon even in name. A pathetic man who will degrade himself however Genji pleases at the _hint_ of the promise of forgiveness. Genji wonders whether Hanzo was always this weak.

Genji kisses him, pulls his lip between his teeth, bites and shares the sweet taste of blood. Hanzo's blood, this time. Hanzo rumbles his pleasure and brings his hands to grip Genji wherever he can. The smooth plates make for a harder time than skin.

"You taste good, _aniki_ ," Genji mumbles.

"You talk too much." But the blush on Hanzo's cheeks shows the truth. Always restrained, always repressed, never saying what he feels, but filthy enough to take his brother like this. All Genji has to do is offer, and Hanzo is there, ready to receive.

Slowly, languidly, a dragon uncoiling, Genji sits up. He shifts onto his knees, Hanzo's face trapped between his thighs. It is a testament to how often they have done this before that his brother does not object, does not even shift. Instead Hanzo leans forward, eager as the trained dog he is.

"Make me feel good," Genji half-whimpers, still playing the desperate virgin. He knows he has no need to beg. He knows he hardly has to ask to get what he wants. And what he wants is very close at hand now.

Hanzo's mouth and tongue move with experience, no longer repulsed by the alien metal and softness between Genji's thighs. Doctor Ziegler left Genji more than capable of feeling pleasure, one of many things he is grateful for. His breath comes faster and he feels a mounting tension as Hanzo continues his work. His body and the sensations are different from how they were before, but pleasure is pleasure, and he finds grinding on his brother's mouth and looking down to see drool and juice running down Hanzo's chin is a far more arousing sight than any evoked by his erstwhile lovers.

" _Yes_ ," he hisses, knotting his fingers in Hanzo's hair and pushing against him, merciless and selfish. Let Hanzo drown beneath him as Genji once drowned on his own blood. Let him bend and suffer and find himself unable to breathe.

The bloodlust is a more potent aphrodisiac than the mouth between his thighs. With all the recklessness that brought them here in the first place, Genji decides that the moment has arrived. He has delayed it long enough, but no longer.

He pulls back from Hanzo's face and holds his brother's cock instead. One, two, three strokes, hard and eager for his brother's cunt. Hanzo makes a noise, of delight or want. It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter anymore.

Genji sinks down. The stretch is easy, something else for which to thank the good doctor. He clenches around Hanzo. He's heard his brother say, so many times, in stuttering breaths and moans, how tight and hot he is. Something to enjoy while Genji makes him suffer.

Genji leans forward. His hands grip Hanzo's back. His mouth traces his neck and jaw. They kiss, long and lewd, tongues sliding together. Hanzo's cheeks are red. So ugly. He mumbles something that sounds like _love._ It's enough for Genji.

"Do you remember," he whispers into his brother's ear, "Father's favorite proverb?"

Hanzo shifts beneath him. The blush does not fade, but the drunk, dazed look does. His eyes sharpen. He's confused, but nothing more. Not yet.

"'The wise hawk hides its talons'?"

"That's the one." Genji rolls his hips, elicits a guttural growl from Hanzo's throat. "I think he would be proud of me."

Their father, lord of the Shimada empire. Their father, more a fox than a dragon. A man whom a stranger might mistake for a humble salaryman. Benevolent and beloved by all. So kind until he cut your throat.

Hanzo lifts an eyebrow. He can't contain the sarcasm this time.

"For destroying his kingdom?"

"No, no," Genji laughs. "For this."

He pulls back far enough to run a hand over the scars of his face. His smile disappears. His hips cease their movements. Hanzo, beneath him, is suddenly tense and wary. He knows that something is happening; he knows that something has changed.

Knowing will not help him.

"What are you talking about, Genji?"

There's the tone. The wise older brother, preparing a lecture. It makes Genji want to throw up. Bile and anger rise together in his throat.

"Do you think you deserve this?"

Hanzo's eyes are wide, somewhere between angry and afraid. Genji wants the latter. He will _fix_ the latter there himself.

"No," he grits out. "I deserve nothing from you."

_Good._ Genji's eyes gleam. He lifts his chin. A princeling. A dragon. "Did you think it would be that easy? Forgiveness? Redemption? Did you imagine I would forget so soon?"

Hanzo's hands are shaking. He grips at Genji's hips, trying to pull him off, perhaps, or just trying to get off. In either attempt, he fails; Genji is steady on his throne.

"Don't," Hanzo rasps incoherently.

"Do you remember the night you killed me, brother? When you left me facedown and choking in a pool of my own blood? I've thought about this ever since then." Genji is euphoric. The satisfaction takes him higher than his brother's cock ever could. The look on Hanzo's face is the most wondrous aphrodisiac. Genji rolls his hips, grinds down, merciless. "About you beneath me."

"Genji," Hanzo says. His voice is broken. His eyes are wide. He doesn't know what's happening. "Please—"

"Does it hurt, Brother? I begged you then, too. Do it now. Scream if you'd like."

His mouth finds Hanzo's neck again. This time, he doesn't mind his teeth.

" _Suffer like I suffered._ "

* * *

Hanzo is not aware of himself. He is only half-aware of the weight upon him, the carnal pleasure wrung from his unwilling body. He does not realize that his breath is coming much too fast and his heart is speeding as if he is in the midst of battle.

"You're still so _hard._ "

There is blood on his hands. There is blood on every part of him. Some of it is his, but so little. So little. He is staggering drunkenly through the night, running, trying to deny what he has done even as the evidence of it surrounds him.

Practiced cuts, just like sparring. Anger lent his blade a keen and thirsty edge. Genji on the floor, eyes wide and staring, a dark red puddle forming beneath him. His breath coming in desperate pants, blowing bubbles in his own blood. His sword forgotten. His body more rent than not. The terrible scream, a sound real and not real at all, of three dragons, one trying to cling desperately to life, the other two crying for their brother.

"Have I lost you, _aniki_?"

Genji is dead. He has murdered his brother. He is dripping with the proof of it, stained beyond repair. He runs and runs, not knowing where he is going. He cannot have done it. This cannot be real. This cannot be happening.

"Come back to me."

Somehow his brain manages to register the hands around his throat. The panic does not fade. Neither his heart nor his breath slow. But he sees his brother's face above him, the eyes too bright, the smile too wide. This thing cannot be Genji. Genji would not do this. Genji is dead in Hanamura, dead at his brother's hands.

Hanzo killed him. He killed him, and this cannot be happening.

There are cruel metal fingers in his hair, pulling and twisting. The pain makes Hanzo's eyes water, though he doesn't have enough breath left to cry out. Genji's other hand has not moved from his windpipe. It constricts, enough to hurt, not enough to kill. In the midst of it Hanzo realizes that he _is_ still hard, that his brother is still riding him mercilessly, that there are vicious teeth laying claim to the canvas of his throat and chest.

"Stop," he gasps, but that only stokes the fervor in Genji's eyes.

"Yes, just like that," his brother laughs. "You look so good like this. This is how it was meant to be."

Hanzo does not know what to do. There is nothing he _can_ do. He is trapped under Genji, torn between past and present, his lungs screaming for relief and his cock singing with a pleasure that doesn't really feel good at all.

It catches him unawares when he comes. A broken cry spills from his throat. Genji leverages his grip in Hanzo's hair to smash his head back onto the tatami mats once, twice, a third time. The pain hardly registers. Hanzo spills inside his brother, fingers scrabbling in the sheets, halfway between consciousness and delusion.

Genji pulls off. The room is quiet but for the roaring in Hanzo's ears. Still, he hears the squelch. Genji presses a cold knee into Hanzo's crotch, pressing cruelly against his overstimulated cock. A noise escapes him, a pitiful and wordless plea, something unsuitable for a dragon.

Genji's lip curls.

"Look at you," he says, perverse reverence and contempt lining his voice in equal measure. " _Look_ at you. Is this all you ever were?"

He pauses, then goes for the fastenings of Hanzo's metal legs. Hanzo lacks the strength to resist, even as Genji takes his prosthetics from him. The sound of metal scraping on metal is much too loud in the silent room.

When he's done, Genji carelessly tosses the legs into the corner. It is only a few feet away. A simple distance, really.

But one that will force Hanzo to crawl.

He lies there, unmoving and unthinking, as Genji moves about the room. He is collecting his things, Hanzo realizes dully. He is leaving. Hanzo cannot follow. He has nowhere to go. He has nothing. Suddenly his world has narrowed to the futon where he lies. His world ended the night he killed his brother. He was a fool to believe it continued past then.

He doesn't know how long it takes. Time has no meaning. He slides between watching Genji and reliving a night years ago. He is paralyzed still, though there is nothing holding him down.

Genji pauses by the door. His visor is in place again, his bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. He has noticed the communicator sitting on the table beside the door. He picks it up, inspects it, and then returns to Hanzo's side. He kneels down and places the little device next to his brother's head, easily within reach.

"Call them, _aniki_ ," he says. He sounds so innocent, so youthful. So thrilled. "Call for help. Tell them what I did."

He leans in. His breath brushes Hanzo's ear.

"And tell them how much you loved it. Tell them about every time you begged for me. About how easy it was for you to do it. Tell them how you loved your little brother. How you killed me, and how you fucked me."

Hanzo stares up at him. He imagines their faces. McCree. The Swiss doctor. All the confirmation any of them would need to know that he is the monster they've suspected him of being.

The truth comes back to Hanzo, bringing cold serenity with it. Yes, it should have been him on that night, not Genji. _This is how it should have been._ A world righting itself.

The thing that _cannot be_ Genji straightens. He turns for the door.

" _Sayōnara_ ," he says, and leaves.


End file.
